Make a muscle,
some uncle would say,
and you’d pop up an arm,
pump up a bicep for them
to squeeze.  Big boy, getting
stronger, they’d say.
You would be pleased and 
secretly you’d do this to yourself
whenever you could — cock that 
arm like Popeye and test the
rock under the skin.

There were times
where you’d work at getting huge
but then came all that pubescence and
things started happening in your head,
voices about how poorly your muscles
did in most things, urgings to stay
small before the bully radar,

and nothing happened with that
muscle plan.  You got thick and dull
and became more head-strong
and less body strong
and compensated with weapons
and wit for long decades to follow

and now you’re nearly sixty
and if you make a muscle in
your stroke arm, only you will know;
if you make a muscle
in your stronger arm, it would show
but not much. 

You’re nearly sixty
and if you make a muscle in public
someone may laugh at you,
perhaps with fondness,
perhaps not.  Big boy, you’re still
so strong, someone might say,
and it will remind you
that all your beloved uncles
are long underground.

In secret you roll up a sleeve.
You’re fourteen again but
there are no bullies left
except the mirror
so you make a muscle
and whisper see, see?
See how big I am getting?  

Because I did not expect 
to live this long,
I have over the years
sold and tossed 
and given away
many things I loved, telling myself
that doing so 

was a way of ensuring
that I might be of some use
as a conduit for certain cherished things
to end up in righteous
and deserving hands. 

Then I did live this long,
far beyond expectation,
and now my hands 
are as empty as I am.

This is not a song of mourning,
not a self-pity song;
this is how we face the stripping away
of illusion at the close of day,
how we sunset when it’s time for dusk.

In the early days of knowing
I would not live long, I was free
and giddy as I shed
guitars and clothes and hats
and all those hours
of recorded music, all those
books, all those things
I’d loved, saying they were in me
now and no one could take them
from me.

Then I lived long
and now I am as empty as my hands;
so much sucked away, so much
drained from me by rough use
and diminishing returns. 

This is not a song of mourning,
not a self-pity song.
This is how we close our eyes
and see how hard the truth is,
how at once loaded and light it is.

What am I supposed to do now 
in such an empty space
if I want to stop existing at last?
Stick this truth in my mouth
and pull on some bitter little fact
like a trigger? 

Not at all: I’m going to sit here

with my empty hands
outstretched and see what,
if anything, falls into them
from above. Wait for the void
to take effect. See if my
remaining possessions 
flee me screaming,
leave quietly, or are taken
one by one into the light.

I’m 
of less and less
value
to those 

I love

as I move deeper into
my lifespan

My brain
Full of holes
My ears 
more or less
stoppered
I don’t know 
how to explain
the kinks 
in my heart 

other than to say
they hurt more
than just me

My pockets
so empty and they
don’t hold water or
a clue about how 
to fill them up
again

and there’s a 
lacking 
under my clothes
I can’t seem to fix

but I still love
and in dark moments

my skin moves with that
like the sea

I once dived into 
a night ocean
lit by a thin
moon

Swam afraid under
thin clouds wondering

what would come up
unseen and kill me

It is much like
that these
days

I feel love
and fear for those
watching me
from the beach

No need for them
to see me jerk and
sink abruptly
or bleed out shaking
in some huge mouth

But I came back to shore
laughing to them that
I’d dodged one

They turn from me
now as they should
knowing I’ve dodged 
nothing as

I shake in 
such jaws as these
that have me now

and the smell of blood’s
in the water